


De Profundis

by a_lanart



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Episode: s01e05 Small Worlds, F/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-24
Updated: 2009-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-03 16:21:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_lanart/pseuds/a_lanart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A journey into Jack's head after Estelle was been killed by the Fairies in the episode Small Worlds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	De Profundis

**Author's Note:**

> De Profundis is latin for Out of the Depths or From the Depths and is the first line of psalm 130... 'Out of the Depths I cry to you Oh Lord, Lord hear my voice...'

Title: De Profundis  
Author: Aeron_Lanart  
Pairing: Jack/Estelle  
Rating: Gen  
Warnings: None  
Spoilers: It's a scene addition to Small Worlds, so has spoilers for that.

~*~

De Profundis

*

De Profundis

They've all gone now, even Gwen, leaving me on my own, but not alone; I have my memories to keep me company. I knock back another mouthful of whisky, feeling the burn in my throat and wonder how much I would be prepared to destroy just to have her back, to be with her one last time. The question of course is academic; I was too late. Too late to protect her, too late to save her, too late to be with her as she left me forever. Damn those creatures to the furthest hell! I remember how she looked that first night, how her eyes shone and the light caught her hair, how she felt in my arms as we danced, lighter than air; so vibrant, so alive. And then I remember how she felt in my arms in her garden; cold, like alabaster, all light and life gone. The tears run down my face again, and I wipe them angrily away; they accomplish nothing, they never do. I raise my glass in the darkness of the deserted hub; a toast, to Estelle, my shining star.

She is 17, all light and laughter despite the terror of the world that surrounds us, glad to be alive. By that time I'm already over 100 years old; sick of it all. She lights up my life in a way I never expected, blows away the debris of too many years lived alone. She takes such pleasure in the simplest of things; a sunset, a walk in the park, throwing pebbles into the sea; life and love and laughter. I cannot bear to be away from her; she makes me live again after so much death and destruction. I find myself enjoying my life again, much to my surprise. We go dancing as often as we can, I love the feel of her in my arms, and the freedom it gives us both from the grind of our everyday lives. The world around us is changing before our eyes and our time together is our refuge from that. In the grand scheme of things we are just another pair of wartime sweethearts, but I hope that we will go beyond that and have a life together.

I should have known how ridiculous that desire was for us both; I was already aware of the fact that I couldn't die and didn't age at a normal rate, but she made me forget, made me yearn to be with her for as long as we both lived.

We didn't even have a year together.

After she turned 18 she decided she had to help the country she loved, no matter what her personal wishes were in the matter. I didn't try to dissuade her, as I was feeling the same need in myself, something I hadn't expected and probably due to the touch of her on my soul. We shared one night of piercing sweetness, of passion long denied and of desperate hope. I cradled her in my arms as she slept, guarding her sleep, savouring the touch of skin on skin and knowing it had to end.

I watched her go, waving at her from the platform as she left on a train for the country, with a crowd of other girls all destined to work on the land, while my hand curled round the ring in my pocket I knew I would never be able to give her. My life, my love, my loss.

The war ended, but I found I couldn't go back. My bright and shining star would no doubt be with someone else, and I couldn't cope with seeing her in another man's arms. Turns out I was wrong of course, but I didn't find this out until I discovered her by chance doing lectures on fairies.

Fairies! They had always been an obsession with her, and I'd tried to explain when we were together that they weren't what they seemed, needless to say she'd never listened, just nurtured the idea of them in her loving heart. I watched from a distance, seeing how she'd changed, but still knowing this was my Estelle, and so I couldn't help myself. I contacted her and introduced myself as the son of the man she'd known. She was willing to accept that, until we actually met and then it was apparent that she didn't believe me. She knew I was *her* Jack, but she went along with the deception for the benefit of everyone else. She never blamed me for taking so long to come back to her, except for the one time she told me she'd missed me. My heart bled; she'd waited all her life for me to come back, and I'd been too scared of my own feelings to even consider it.

We did get to dance together again though, and she still felt as light in my arms as she had when she was 17; goodness knows what everyone else at those 1940s dances thought of us, but she and I didn't care. Our lives wouldn't allow for us to pick up exactly where we'd left off and so we drifted in and out of each other's life; touching occasionally but no longer together in the sense we had been. She laughed about being an old woman, so I told her she was still beautiful and always would be.   
Somehow the years hadn't dimmed that inner light, and she still shone, lighting up people's lives, making people want to believe.

Now all the light has gone out of my life. All I'm left with is regrets and thoughts of 'if only' and the letter sitting on my desk, unopened. The paper is handmade, one of her special batches. I hadn't realised she'd made it for herself. I touch it hesitantly, not sure if I can read it and not sure if I can't read it; indecisive and scared. Not knowing what I'll find out in its finely-written pages, and trying to decide if I want to know what's in there. In the end there is no choice; it was written by Estelle, for me, and I have to read. I pick up the letter, break the seal and begin... 'My Darling Jack,' I get no further than those words before I'm crying again, sobbing my heart out over my lost love. The letter is pushed to one side so I don't ruin it with my grief. I'll read it sometime, maybe after the funeral. My Estelle is not going to be kept in cold isolation in Torchwood, she's going back to the land that she loved, and maybe then I'll be able to forgive myself.


End file.
